


As It Began

by OnTheRoadSoFar



Series: As It Began [3]
Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Angst, First Time, Fluff, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-10-25 05:15:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17718752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnTheRoadSoFar/pseuds/OnTheRoadSoFar
Summary: 1971, pre-fame series about the strong bond formed between four London graduates also known as Queen, and how that special bond, for Freddie and John, slowly blossoms into something more.Precious baby John Deacon's POV.





	As It Began

**Author's Note:**

> This turned out a lot more angsty than I thought it would. Next chapter will solve some of the tension, but for now, enjoy the fluff and the smut and the drama! Please let me know what you think, and what you think should happen next!

One would have to be blind as a mole to not to be able to read the room and guess what had been going on between John and Freddie before they were so ruthlessly interrupted by someone flinging open the door. What a sight they must have been, too! With as much space between them as the few preceding milliseconds had provided, the one looked more disheveled, more panicked, more wildly turned on than the other, with John taking home the evening’s grand prize for Worst Hard-On Cover-Up of the Century. His pants – those damn, way-too-tight white silky things Freddie had presented him with earlier in the day with the ambiguous words “not even Roger can pull these off” – were absolutely impossible to get back up where they belonged, around his waist and not his angles, without the necessary tugging, wiggling and squeezing, in that exact order. Generally, it was a very time-consuming process – time which John of course had had none of, resulting in him now leaning helplessly across a poor, oblivious table, still fully exposed under its surface, as the door flew open, his cheeks burning warmer and brighter than ever in an awkward, unfamiliar mixture of arousal and embarrassment. Shaking like a cup of tea in an 8.0 earthquake, he was frantically trying to cover up his damp chest when a high, shrill voice suddenly filled the darkening room with a force which made John jump out of his skin a second time within mere heartbeats. 

“Oh, my- shit! God, I’m sorry! Sorry, just ignore me! Shit.” 

John was looking down at himself, focusing as much attention on the buttons of his shirt as he could possibly muster. The little bastards were incredibly difficult to fasten in the dim light, and his hands were beyond uncooperative. He never saw the girl who uttered those words, but the loud, invasive laugher which accompanied her as she quickly left the room again and slammed the door after her cut through him like icicles. The impression of her intrusion felt like cinders in John’s mouth, and all he could do was close his eyes and try to steady his raging pulse one deep breath at a time. In. Out. In. Out. He had quite miraculously managed to get his pants back on when he first heard it: the other laugh. The quiet one. The sweet, velvety one. The one coming from somewhere in the room. Wiping his brow with the inside of his wrist, John opened his eyes carefully. The room was even darker than he remembered, illuminated only by a buzzing orange bulb hanging loftily from the ceiling in the far east corner beyond the desk. For the briefest of moments, John thought he was alone in the classroom, and that the second laugher only existed in his head; but then he saw him, on the floor, half-leaning against a chair which again was pushed against the wall beneath the dark rectangular outline of the window. It was Freddie, laughing, and his laugher was rapidly increasing in intensity until he was practically sprawled on the floor with his hands on his stomach and his eyes all wet and crinkly and a lock of hair in his mouth, chuckling away and sounding high as a freaking kite. John at first didn’t move from where he was standing, his right hand gripping the table which moments before he had been pushed against by the man now hopelessly trying to get up from the floor, but instead ending up on all four with his face hidden between quivering shoulders in a mess of black hair. John knew how soft that hair was, how light-weight, and how it smelled slightly of rosewater underneath the heavy dampness developed on stage. He looked at his hand on the tabletop, then at Freddie. Then back at his hand. He felt a tingling sensation in his chest moments before the first unattractive giggles, beyond his control, escaped his throat in waves of snorts and gurgles, and soon Freddie was up again and moving towards him and somehow magically back in John’s arms, his fingers interlaced behind John’s back as John grabbed Freddie’s shoulders lightly, tenderly. There was nothing overtly sexual about the way they touched now. They were smiling and laughing and holding each other so close, closer than John had ever been held before. He was hot and dizzy, but it was a good kind of dizzy, the kind that makes you forget that there are such things as exams and electricity bills and dictators and war, the kind that has your spirit momentarily soaring out the window, into the inky night sky, towards the stars at the edge of the Milky Way. He could be anything, do anything. They could do anything, together. When Freddie whispered John’s name between fading puffs of merriment, John stood up straight and looked into those dark, mesmerizing eyes with a newfound confidence. He was about to speak when footsteps once again approached the room on the other side of the door. This time, the two of them were prepared, and Brian never seemed to notice that anything had happened while he was gone. It was strange. Brian had carried a load of gear to the van, a brief, insignificant act, something he did every weekend without a second thought. While he had done so, John’s whole world had turned upside down. No going back from this. There were no external signs of any changes, of course – the party kept on going, the world kept on turning, yet John’s life would never be the same again. He had lost – what had he lost? His innocence? His… Virginity? Did that… What Freddie did to him, did that count as sex? How was he to know, he had never done anything like that before. He had barely even kissed another person, let alone stuck his tongue down their throat and moaned uncontrollably from the depth of his very being. And then there was that soaring feeling somewhere, everywhere, inside of him, stirring, growing. Taking over. How could Brian not see that John wasn’t the same longhaired, silk-clad bass player he had left standing with his hands in his pockets moments earlier? Why couldn’t John himself put a finger on that change he was so sure he felt all the way from his head to his toes? When would he know? And more importantly, what would he know then? John dared not look at Freddie lest he should expose the confusion slowly building up in his hazy mind. He had had more than enough exposure for one night. A sudden urge to run and hide, hide from the world, from Brian and Roger, from Freddie’s eyes, overtook him, and he hastily grabbed a couple of bags and his own instrument and fled the darkness of the room with a quick “I’ll take these to the van, shall I”. He could feel Freddie’s gaze boring into his back as he turned the corner down the hallway, swallowing a lump in his throat the size of an iceberg and ignoring a muffled Rod Stewart somewhere crooning you stole my heart and that’s what really hurt. 

Brian followed John to the van with a second load, and within ten minutes both Freddie and Roger had joined them, and the van was pulling out of the parking lot and sieving into the late-night London traffic, a soothing tranquility possessing its four occupants. John was in the front seat next to Brian resting his head against the cold window as the city, with its countless bars and lights and commotions, all muted by the rhythmic sound of wheels on paved roads, rolled past his unfocused eyes and filled his head with blurred visions of a life that wasn’t his. When Brian dropped him off at his flat, he didn’t remember anything from the ride home. He couldn’t recall if anyone had said anything to him or if he had provided any answers. He didn’t know which route Brian had taken. He only knew that he was freezing his butt off, thirsty as hell and more than ready to sleep for forty-eight hours straight. 

“Well. Night, guys,” he said gently before sliding the door closed. He was careful not to turn his head in the direction of Freddie and Roger in the back, and he was fairly certain, too, that it was only Roger’s rusty voice giving a reply to his leaving remark, followed by Brian’s usual “I’ll give you a call tomorrow about rehearsals. Night, Deacy.”

John didn’t get to sleep for forty-eight hours after all. He woke up at noon the following day, his stage clothes – Freddie’s clothes – strewn in odd, snaky formations on the burgundy carpet. A ruthless late winter sun filtered through the half-drawn blinds and hurt his eyes as he stared at the black and white silk, his cheek pressed tightly against the edge of the mattress, and his hair dangling off the side of the bed in long, frizzy curls. There was nothing much glamorous about those clothes in broad daylight, he noticed, all wrinkled and dirty in a heap next to a knocked-over glass of water, an old teddy bear and the sad remains of a ham sandwich. Did he make that sandwich last night or the night before? He couldn’t remember, and it didn’t seem to matter. The clothes held his attention for a little while longer, until a strange realization hit him with such velocity that he felt wide awake in nanoseconds. 

He had kissed Freddie last night. And Freddie had kissed him back. Kissed his mouth, his throat, his chest. Held his face. Touched his stomach. Unzipped his trousers and...

No. Somehow he didn’t feel like remembering that part. Not yet, anyway. He closed his eyes against the sharp sunlight and smiled – he just couldn’t help it. Yes, Freddie and him hadn’t talked at all after the fact, and there had been an odd tension in the air the rest of the night, brought on in part by John’s uncertainties about the whole incident and in part by something in Freddie’s eyes which John didn’t quite recognize or understand. But kissed they had, and it had felt so good. And they had laughed, too, and that had felt even better. John was recalling how firm and affectionate Freddie’s hands had been on his hips when the telephone rang with a piercing, shaky ring which bounced off the walls and hit him right between the eyes. He was too exhausted to pick up, but it was probably Brian, and Brian would keep on calling until John answered. And if he should choose not to, or, as was sometimes the case, be unable to, Brian would send Roger over later in the day with the necessary message. That was their system, and John liked it. It made him feel important. Right now, however, he hated that system and cursed its existence to Birmingham and back. He wasn’t quite ready to face the day just yet.

Eventually, when the constant ringing became too much, John had picked up the telephone, and Brian had informed him that, if John was available, next band practice was tomorrow, two o’clock, at Brian’s place. John had said he would be there, no problem. He was looking forward to it. Less than an hour, a lukewarm shower and two cups of coffee later, however, the telephone rang again. John picked it up instantly, certain it was Brian calling back to change the meet-up time or location for the next day, and surprised to be met with Freddie’s soft, chirpy voice at the other end of the line.

“Afternoon, dear, lovely day, isn’t it” he said quickly, tensely. He always said that, often before noon or well into the evening, too, and always on both sunny and rainy days. John had always wondered why his friend seemed to live in an eternal post-midday, pre-nighttime sphere of charm and attraction, and made a mental note to ask him about it the next time they saw each other. For now, he was too busy smiling like a fool at Freddie’s uncharacteristically vague blabbering, gripping the receiver with both hands and twisting his upper body gently, half-unconsciously, back and forth like a some strange, coquettish bird. 

“Did you sleep well, darling?”

“Fine, yes. Yes.” A nervous laugh escaped his throat. “You?”

“Oh, you know me. I don’t sleep if I can help it. Been up and busy since nine, can you believe it?”

“Really?”

“Well, up anyway. Maybe not so busy. I did finish a song, though. A sort of, well, it’s not a ballad, but it’s sort of similar in structure to- well, you’ll hear it tomorrow, anyway. Brian did tell you we’re rehearsing tomorrow, didn’t he?”

“He did, yes. He called. About an hour ago.”

“Oh, good, good. Well.” There was a slight pause. John thought he could hear Freddie taking a deep breath, but it might just have been a poor connection. John really wanted to mention last night then, but he had no idea how to approach the subject. He had never received that infamous morning-after call – or made it, for that matter. Besides, he was a little disappointed in himself regarding the way he had handled the situation last night after Brian had rejoined Freddie and him in the classroom. He had panicked – just slightly, mind you, but panicked nonetheless – and Freddie had been quiet and reserved for the rest of the night. Had he not? He was calling John now, of course. Surely, that was a sign that he was… That he wanted to… John didn’t get to finish that thought before Freddie spoke again, this time with much of his old confidence reignited. 

“Roger’s going out tonight, you know.”

“Is he?”

“He is. With a girl.”

“That sounds about right.” John was starting to feel a by now rather familiar heat spread across his pale cheeks. His face suddenly felt warm against the grey plastic in his hand. 

“So…,” Freddie ventured. 

“So?”

“You really want me to say it, don’t you?” There was delight in Freddie’s tone; he sounded happy. John felt very sure that Freddie was smiling awkwardly, too. 

“Say what? I’m not a mind reader. Roger’s got a date, that’s all you’ve told me so far.”

“God, I’m getting so hard for you right now,” Freddie erupted. 

John was a little shocked at the sudden candor, but his heart was pounding out of his chest, and he didn’t want to mess this up by being, well… Like he always was. Too timid, too afraid. Freddie wanted him. Him! He needed to let Freddie know that he returned the sentiment wholeheartedly. 

“Well, not much I can do about that from where I’m standing.” John’s face was positively aflame from embarrassment. Had he really said that? Freddie’s reaction, however, was worth the risk of his verbal exploration. It made John giggle proudly to himself, like when he had first stepped out on stage in silk and glitter and bowtie the night before, and Freddie had nodded approvingly across the platform, his hair an ebony halo beneath the shimmering white light emitted by a couple of old projectors dangling from the rafters. 

“John Richard Deacon, I have never! You utter tease! Well, I’m in my room, alone, so in fact, there might be something you can do.”

John swallowed hard. “What do you have in mind, Fred?”

There was another pause in which John thought he heard a lock being turned followed by some unidentified ruffling of… Fabric?

“What are you wearing,” came the voice on the telephone, slow and deep. 

“Um. Bathrobe,” John answered hesitantly. 

“Perfect,” Freddie cried. “I’m in my underpants.” A pause. “Do you want me to take them off?”

John was beginning to feel a pleasant, dangerous stirring in his belly and further down. His answer came out in an unintentionally shaky breath. 

“Yes, take them off.”

“They’re off,” came the reply immediately. “Now you take off your robe. I want you all naked as well.”

John obeyed without a second thought. He was now standing completely naked in his kitchen. He had never been naked in his kitchen before. He had never been naked anywhere except in his bathroom, with the door firmly closed. The kitchen was cold and quiet, but his body was warm, pulsating, eager. He wanted to touch himself so badly, but he didn’t know how this, whatever it was, worked, so he waited. Patiently. Finally, Freddie spoke again in that same husky fashion. 

“Tell me what you’re doing.” His voice – it was so rough, so breathless. He was already touching himself, John thought, and the thought gave him the confidence he needed to take the next step. 

“I’m… Touching my nipples. They- they’re hard. I’m twisting them.” John could hear Freddie moaning slowly, loudly, into the telephone, and he continued, reassured and by now extremely turned on.

“I’m moving my hand downwards,” John said, “down, down. Rubbing the inside of my thighs. I’m- I’m really hard right now. So hard for you.” He had no time to consider whether he was doing this right before an answer came, loud and clear. 

“Oh, god, yes,” Freddie gasped. “Yes! Ah, touch yourself. Come on, grab your huge cock for me, John!”

And John did. He took his cock, warm and throbbing, between his spit-filled fingers and started jerking his hand up and down in a fast, ruthless motion. No more going slow; he was already far too gone for that. 

Freddie was crying profanities in between loud moans that sounded like John’s name, and it was the hottest thing John had ever heard. He pushed harder and harder into his own fist, adding his own hissing version of Freddie’s name to the melody of their joined ecstasy. 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, John, oh, god. Fuck! John, John, John! I am so close, so close to-“

“I wish I was there to finish you off. I would suck you so hard and have you come all over my face and my throat and my chest. I bet your cock is so big it would-“ John didn’t know what he was saying, didn’t recognize himself in that overwhelming moment when Freddie positively screamed, and John himself came so hard he thought he was going to pass out. The room was spinning, his vision blurred, and he had to drop to his knees as he squeezed the last of his orgasm out of his body and fell heavily against the lower cupboards in a haze of euphoric triumph. He closed his eyes and saw Freddie’s face, flushed and sweet and protective, in the maze of his inner thoughts. A deep panting, growing steadier every second, was barely audible on the telephone still pressed against his burning, sweaty cheek. Then a sigh and a realization. Freddie had come as well. They came together. 

Freddie’s voice became clearer again as he laughed a breathless laughter into John’s ear, filling John’s very being with something, some mutual understanding, he could only describe as intoxicating, otherworldly. Magic. So this was what it felt like. This was it!

“John,” Freddie spoke, his voice almost its normal, soft self. “My darling John.”

“My darling Freddie.”

“My sweet, precious John. My everything.”

John chuckled. They were silly, making no sense, giddy. It was lovely beyond words. “My dearest Freddie. My first, my-“

“Your what?”

John opened his eyes. The kitchen was quiet again. Only the droning hum of the fridge vibrated across the floor and under his skin. 

He smiled, carefully, raising his gaze to the bare, white ceiling. “My first.” 

Freddie was silent, then: “Your first guy, you mean.”

“Yes, that too,” John replied. 

Freddie’s voice suddenly changed into an unexpected mixture of firmness and alarm. “What do you mean, dear, your first? You- you have had sex before, haven’t you, John? Like, you’re not a virgin, are you? John?”

“Well, not anymore.”

“Not anymore?” John had to pull the telephone away from his ear, so loud was the rupture of Freddie’s question. Or maybe it just felt that way because John didn’t understand what he was saying. “John, that was not- I mean, we didn’t- that’s not…”

“Freddie, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing, darling, nothing’s wrong. It’s just… Oh, nothing.”

John had the distinct feeling he had done something wrong, but he had no clue what it was. There was a lump in his throat that he couldn’t swallow, and he pulled his legs up close and hugged his free arm around them to fend off the coldness of the room. The floor tiles were like ice against his ass. 

“Do you still want me to come over tonight,” he asked.

“Um. Maybe that’s not such a good-“

“What? I didn’t hear-“

“Yes. Yes, sure, come over. I think Roger will probably be home early, but… You should- you should come. If you want to.”

“Do you want me to?”

“Of course, dear. Look, I’ll see you tonight, alright? At seven thirty? Roger’s calling, I have to run.”

“Alright. Goodbye.”

“Bye, John.” Dial tone. 

John looked down at himself, sticky and smelly and shivering. There were tears in his eyes that hadn’t been there before.


End file.
